


you're my only

by wildcard_47



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, I Believe The Kids Call This Whump, I'm A Hurt Comfort Whore, M/M, Tearful Conversations, hurt comfort, sweet boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: After the almost-apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley leave the Ritz and take a little walk.





	you're my only

Dinner at the Ritz was a lovely affair, and was very shortly followed by dessert, coffee, sherry, a second coffee, and finally — after poor Sebastian stopped giving them supplicating glances of despair out of the corner of one eye and Crowley tossed an extra twenty pound note atop the paid cheque — ended with the two of them strolling out into the pavement, arm-in-arm, like the most elegant gentlemen.

Aziraphale could not remember a more pleasant evening with Crowley, not since they’d got crepes from that place in Brittany in 1792, and said so at once.

“Yeah.” Crowley let out a theatrical sigh. His toothy smile widened, even as he let go of Aziraphale’s arm — touched the angel’s coat with one hand. “Not bad, really.”

_Not bad?_ Aziraphale might have trilled such a phrase back to his companion in a very mischievous tone were he in a jesting mood, but he was not, and so he did not. Crowley just looked so relieved to be back to routes after fomenting a bit of peace. Averting an apocalypse. Whatever the technical term would be for what they had done previous. That was likely the reason he was smiling so broadly.

Aziraphale certainly did not want Crowley to stop smiling, but he had also begun to dwell on a phrase the dear man had said earlier, whilst Aziraphale had been discorporated. _I lost my best friend._ The more they walked on in contented silence, though arm-in-arm no longer, the more that phrase tugged at the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind.

_I lost my best friend._

_Best_ friend. Or perhaps best _friend_. Best in any case. Superlative to all the rest.

Aziraphale did not understand what in heaven puzzled him about this innocent remark until its full significance boxed him right about the ears, causing him to jerk to a stop on the pavement.

“Crowley, am—am I your—best friend?”

The demon had already slowed his usual pace, but upon hearing this question, spun to face Aziraphale at once, very slowly, like a particularly large kebab.

_“What,”_ he drawled, flat as you please.

Now gnawing at his lower lip a bit, Aziraphale repeated the question, though it was not interrogative this time, and sounded rather timid even to his own corporation’s ears. “Am I your, ah, best friend. Is what I asked. Which is to say, I am aware that we _are_ friends — good friends, even, but I merely—wanted to confirm that—”

“What?” gasped Crowley again, serpentine eyes gleaming in the dark. He had pushed his sunglasses atop his shock of auburn hair some time ago, and so Aziraphale could see every blessed reaction play out on his face: shock, then amusement, then impish delight. So much delight that he actually began to laugh, low in his throat. “Come _on_, angel!”

“Well, all right,” huffed Aziraphale, although he was not truly angry to see Crowley laugh this way, not when Crowley was doubled over in delight, pressing both hands first to his heaving middle, then wrapping one around his chest, as if keeping all his mirth from spilling out into the rest of the world. Aziraphale did so like to see Crowley laugh, and so he kept up the jape, summoning a not-insignificant amount of levity. “If you must know, I really wasn’t certain you felt the same until a few days ago, but peck at me over my ignorance if you must. Obviously I am a very stupid angel who asks very stupid questions, and thus you may take the mickey out of my heavenly ignorance, as per usual. Do go on, my dear boy. Prepare your very worst. I have gathered my strength. You shall be utterly—”

Hands now pressed to his eyes, shoulders still shaking, Crowley suddenly let out a sharp, raw noise. It was not happy or pleasant at all. It was a _cry._

Angels, as a rule, are perhaps the most able to discern when a simple feeling of despair becomes a cry, apart from cats, dogs, and dolphins, who are quite perceptive creatures in their own right. A cry is not merely the act of dissolving into tears, although that typically does precede the event. It is the act of silent beseechment—a flood of sudden, visceral desperation on behalf of another—which separates an otherwise ordinary incident of tears from a genuine cry. A cry is a wordless supplication. A prayer. A plea. 

Normally offered up to God, of course, but on many occasions passed along to the heavenly host instead. Aziraphale could spot a genuine cry from half a world away—though when it came from the demon now standing next to him, it was inconceivable.

“Dear heart.” 

Aziraphale stepped closer, placing a tentative hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Crowley croaked.

But the palpable grief which rolled off Crowley in waves indicated he wanted to be touched—craved such contact, even. Aziraphale felt this much, and thus he placed a second hand on the demon’s opposite shoulder.

“Crowley, my dear, dear boy, whatever can I….”

“Ssss not — 'm all — all — ”

Shaking, frantic, Crowley was hunched forward, now, the back of his palms pressing into Aziraphale’s lapels as he wept; Aziraphale did not hesitate, merely acted on instinct, drawing Crowley into his arms.

“Oh, Crowley.” It had started to rain; water pelted them in wild, angry sheets. “Crowley, my dearest darling. I have you. I have you, and you’re all right, and everything’s going to be just fine, Crowley. We’ll—go on a picnic tomorrow, if you like. Feed the ducks at St. James’s. Although I have heard you’re not supposed to give them bread any more, so perhaps we ought to think of an equally delicious treat to bring instead? Do you think water fowl have a particular food they enjoy more than the others? Seeds or berries or any sort of delicacy they wouldn’t normally find in their habitat? Hm. I do suppose that — oh, Crowley, dear, you can hardly stand. And your hair is simply — ” with an odd gasp of a laugh, Aziraphale reached up and brushed limp, wet strands away from Crowley’s ears “—you’ll catch cold if we stay out here much longer, surely. And we can’t have you getting chilled. Not when there’s so much to do. We haven’t even gone to Alpha Centauri yet. Or—or to that silly theme park you like to mock so much. Or to the seaside —”

Crowley took a shuddering breath before speaking again. “A-Aziraphale.”

“Yes?” whispered the angel.

Both hands dug into his coat collar, fisting the damp wool in a white-knuckled grip as Crowley made that awful choked noise again. “I felt you _die._”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale could say in response. His eyes filled with sympathetic tears.

“One minute y’were there and the next—” a glimmer of pain like nothing Aziraphale had ever felt before flashed into his aura, sharp and sulfuric and _red_, “—I couldn’t find you, and everything was burning, whole blesssssed fucking _sssshop_—”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale tightened his hold against the demon, who now slumped against his shoulder with a hiss. “I am so very sorry.”

“Don’t leave me.”

Crowley’s voice was barely audible, and he wrenched his gaze to one side.

_You’re my best friend_, Aziraphale thought, bringing his hand up to caress Crowley’s cheek. He swiped his thumb across the slick of tears that had evaded the safety of Crowley’s sunglasses, a gesture of infinite tenderness.

Crowley made a choked noise, and grasped for Aziraphale’s wrist with one hand; shushing him, Aziraphale pressed his other hand to Crowley’s face, his neck, his hair.

“Dearest,” he breathed, soft as a cloud. “My best friend. Beloved one.”

Crowley made a noise that sounded like _ngk!_ as Aziraphale pushed his sunshades up, exposing Crowley’s beautiful amber eyes to the cool rain-flecked air. 

“For the record,” he continued softly, leaning forward to kiss Crowley’s forehead, “I refuse to run off anywhere without you.”

_“Angel.”_ Crowley’s voice hitched on a sob. “Angel, I—I just—”

Love was spilling everywhere around them, hazy and orange-gold, so much that Aziraphale was certain their physical forms might burst with the pressure of keeping it inside. Aziraphale tightened his grip in Crowley’s locks, leaning in to kiss his eyelids, his brow, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to stay close to Crowley now, for as long as his best friend, the most dearest being in the universe, would let him.

“I love you, too.”

Gasping, Crowley yanked Aziraphale forward and pressed his lips to the angel’s. Nothing more was said for several minutes. Nothing needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Sing it if you know the words!


End file.
